Dreaming of Zoo Station and Rice-a-Roni

Exiting the driveway this morning, I almost slammed into a big red SUV that was inexplicably parked across the street. This after I had to put my patched-up tire back on my car first thing this morning. Then when I went to get my oil changed, the fellows at Carousel Oil Change were unable to pry my air filter off of my engine. This is honestly turning out to be a pretty lousy car week. Late at night, when I'm in my bed, with the fan on and my dog snoring, I fantasize about living someplace with a viable public transport system. I recall the London underground and Waterloo Station, the U-bahn and S-Bahn, and the sanctioned insanity of taxi drivers in Rome. Instead of these, I live in an area that has virtually no public transportation, and where the communities are so scattered and poorly-planned that a significant investment of your time is required just to walk up to get a Slurpee. Walking in Livonia has completely lost any practical purpose aside from being a low-impact aerobic workout. Hence all the senior citizens forever doing the circuit around one of our many malls.

A friend of mine, Jeff Rice, has just celebrated his 30th birthday in Chicago, where he lives, and where public transportation isn't regarded with loathing and suspicion. At least not as much as it is in metro Detroit. Unfortunately, Jeff has also broken up with his girlfriend of close to a decade, who has moved out west to start a life in organic farming. He has also recently graduated with a Masters in Education, which makes him the first one of my friends from high school to get his Masters, and he was a grade behind the rest of us. He was considering pursuing a degree in Library and Information Science, but I convinced him not to; once I graduate, I know I won't need that sort of competition. So, to recognize this confluence of life-changing events, I salute him with the poem I sent him in his birthday card:

Violets are blue,

Roses are red,

You're another year older,

And soon you'll be dead.

As I told him: gather those rosebuds, brother, 'cause time sure is a'flying.

I'm listening to the Buzzcocks' "Moving Away from the Pulsebeat" in M. Rice's honor.